May We Never Forget...

In grade school, I remember learning about the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. I remember reading about a speech by Franklin D. Roosevelt, the 32^nd President of the United States, recalling the events and describing the day as “a date which will live in infamy”. No disrespect, but Pearl Harbor was an historical event taking up a couple of pages in my history textbook, somewhere in the chapter labeled “World War II”. A day full of desolation, I’m sure of it, but to me…it was a couple of pages in my history textbook, followed by an essay question on an exam detailing the significance of the attack on Pearl Harbor to the United States’ involvement in World War II. That’s all.

On September 11, 2001 at 8:45 am, I was in 7^th grade English class. I wish I could remember what Miss Scharber was talking about on that Tuesday morning. Now, thirteen years later, I can’t remember a single thing that happened on that day before 8:46 am.  I can’t remember if I woke up a few minutes late or if I had breakfast. I can’t remember what ChannelOne News was about that morning or what messages were included on the morning announcements over the muzzy intercom. I can’t remember my final moments of innocence.

On the 46^th minute, of the 8^th hour, on the 11^th day of September, in the year 2001, everything changed. I can recall every detail from that moment on as if I was suddenly awakened from a long sleep. The eerily quiet high school hallways. The panicked look on Mrs. Melugin’s face. The discussions of who orchestrated these events. The planes crashing. The towers falling. The people jumping. The people running. The people crying. The people.

Even though, as a twelve year old, I could only recollect small amounts of the information on the news coverage, I couldn't stop watching. Before my eyes, something was happening. The world was changing. I….I was changing.

My naivety was challenged and questioned. These types of events only happen in Times New Roman, 10 pt font sprinkled on the white page of a textbook. These types of events were only multiple choice questions on a history test. These types of events didn't happen here, right? People don’t just plan to kill thousands of people….right? This world is beautiful and good and safe…………..right?

Now, thirteen years later, I still struggle with these questions.

That night, on the 11^th day of September in 2001, I remember having trouble sleeping. I had a small television set in my room, and I turned on Nick at Nite, some light humor to help me shake those images out of my mind. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to forget…..

May we never forget September 11, 2001. May we never forget the families who lost their loved one. May we never forget the heroes. May we never forget the comradery, the love, the compassion shared between the American people on the days and weeks that followed. May we never forget.

…gave proof through the night… that our flag was still there….

Mother's Day - My Mom

I walked into the large conference room for Take Your Child to Work Day. My mom had worked for Proctor & Gamble for a while; this wasn't my first time at her office. An unfamiliar face walked up to me.

"Are you Shelli's son?" she asked me as if she was, well, talking to a little kid.

"Yeah," I replied, a bit under my breath.

I wanted to be Mitch. I couldn't stand being known as "Shelli's son".

About 25 years ago, I was born to the parents of Mark and Shelli Hammond. I am so blessed to have two great parents. However, today is about Shelli, my mom.

For the past week, I knew I wanted to write something about her. And, for the past week, I have struggled with what to say. This isn't because there was nothing to say, but because there was so much to say that I had no idea what to include. How could I convey the sacrifices she made, the love she gave, and the mother she was?

And then I realized something.

I can't.

And that's not necessarily a bad thing. There's something special and beautiful when something cannot be properly described. Like the feeling you get the first time you see the ocean or witness a shooting star. You can't describe it the way it deserves to be described. It just...is.

I could say a lot about my mom.
I could list out everything she did just to make me smile.
I could tell you about all the times she stood up for me and hugged me when I was feeling down.
I could pass along the life lessons and attributes that I learned from my mom.
I could show you countless cards with beautiful words of love, written by my mom, on each one.
I could go on, and on, and on, and on.......

But I won't.

Like the ocean and a shooting star, my mom just is.
She is giving, and loving, and compassionate.
She is everything I hope to be as a person.
She is the embodiment of the parent I hope to be one day.

She is my mom.

And as for me, I am honored to call myself Shelli's son.

Beside the Cross

The event has been documented and told for nearly two centuries. A man, out of love, hanged on a cross, suffering excruciating pain for hours. With nails pierced through the skin into the ragged, splintery pieces of wood, blood dripped down to his feet and fell onto the ground below. Mockers hurled insults at him and shook their heads in disgust, spitting at the claim that he, as he had claimed, was the “Son of God.”

Jesus wasn't the only one being crucified on Good Friday. Along with Jesus were two criminals, one on each side of the cross of Jesus.

We don’t know much of anything about the two criminals. No name. No family history. No criminal history. They are merely two men being punished for crimes that they committed.

What we do know, however, is how they viewed the cross of Jesus.

One man used his final moments to provoke Jesus. Luke recalls the man saying “if you’re the Christ, save yourself and us!” He mocked Jesus and wanted to use the Cross to his benefit. Show me you’re the Son of God by getting me off this cross.

Jesus, despite the insults and pain, would cry out saying “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing”.

Let him save himself if he is the “Chosen One!”

If you’re the king of the Jews, come down from there!

The man hanging on the other cross, who admits that he is suffering the punishment that fits the crime, speaks up. Through the pain of the nails pierced through his skin he tells the other criminal that Jesus has done no wrong and doesn't deserve the ridicule or the cross. He looks to Jesus and says, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Again, we don’t know this man’s back story. Maybe he met Jesus before and was able to speak to him. The chances are slim, though. So with, presumably, one of his final statements on earth, he looks over at a bloody man, sentenced to a horrifying death by the government, and says “remember me when you come into your kingdom.” See, this man didn't have the rest of the beautiful love letter that God scripted out for us, that we have now. He may have read the Old Testament, but he didn't get to read the Gospels and know all the wondrous acts performed by the hands of Jesus. He didn't get to hear the story of Mary checking in on the tomb only to find it empty, for us to rejoice that the Son of God had risen. He didn't get that.

What he had was a brief moment with Jesus and a belief. He believed he deserved what was done to him, the death on a cross. He believed Jesus did not. He believed that Jesus had a kingdom, a life to come. He believed he wanted to be part of that life, not only to be saved from the current situation like the other criminal. He wanted to be remembered by the Son of God who was breathing his final breaths on earth.

And Jesus, despite the struggle and agony and pain and anguish, answered to the man gracefully saying, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.”

We don’t know his name. We don’t know his family history. We don’t know the crime he committed.

We know that when he saw Jesus, he wanted to be with him forever.

We know the story. The cross is on Bibles, necklaces, and skin. We've almost become stale to those six hours where Jesus suffered a brutal persecution and crucifixion, an act that we can hardly wrap our minds around. We know that Jesus was not defeated in death, and we celebrate, which is great because Jesus bore that pain and all that sin so that we may be saved. But I can’t help but wonder if we've shifted more to the first criminal, who view the cross as a “save me!” moment, and sometimes we forget that we have this criminal history and we are so undeserving of that love that he gives. We forget to approach the cross with humility and the hope that Jesus remembers us in his kingdom.